


Spells of Gold

by Serindrana



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, Femslash, Smuggling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:10:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serindrana/pseuds/Serindrana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles about Athenril and Bethany Hawke. Each chapter has a separate rating, and warnings if necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Savior [T]

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spicyshimmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyshimmy/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A follow-up to [_"A" Is For..._](http://archiveofourown.org/works/297299).

Athenril will get her hands dirty, up to her elbows in filth - but she doesn’t stay around for the fallout.

It’s something Bethany has always known, ever since the first day they met. Athenril will do the job, but if it turns sour, she’s out. She retreats. She’s very good at making it look like she’s not running, but that’s the truth and always has been. So when templar patrols increase and the knight-commander loses what little shreds of sanity and dignity she has left, when Bethany spends more and more time in Orsino’s office or with the apprentices or praying for guidance, she’s not surprised when Athenril stops coming.

But she is surprised when the letters stop completely.

She tries to bury it, but the hurt is unbearable.

It’s easier to tell herself that Athenril has run than to think the templars caught her. It’s easier to tell herself that Athenril has run than to think that Garrett has somehow decided to stop approving, because that makes no  _sense_. He would never deny Bethany that little bit of hope, of smuggled sunshine.

But the truth is, Athenril doesn’t come around again.

__

When the final battle comes, Bethany isn’t sure she’ll make it. Her stomach wrenches and roils and rots at Orsino’s words, at what he becomes, and she nearly dies in the wreckage of it all. Her faith, her hopes, her trust. She stares at it all, putrid blood on stone, and she feels nothing and everything all wrapped up in a hard rock that won’t go down her throat, no matter how she gasps for air or swallows desperately.

Garrett settles a hand on her shoulder. Anders offers a small smile, and doesn’t say anything except, _“You can do this_.” There are no statements against blood magic, no  _I told you so_ , no  _why didn’t you listen to me in the Vimmarks_. And she finally begins to see exactly what Garrett sees in him.

There’s Varric, too, and Merrill, and all the others of Garrett’s friends she never really got to know, not well enough. There’s Isabela, still not wearing pants and still magnificent, and her hug is better than all the hugs she has ever felt save Garrett’s and Malcolm’s.

And then, somewhere in the fray that follows, there’s a flash of dirty blonde hair, a familiar shout, the gleam of daggers in the dark.

She tries not to watch for it. There’s no time, no  _room_. There’s only howling and creaking and roaring, deafening noise and unending silence when her ears ring and she can only stare at the dark sky, filled with smoke. Tears streak her face, but she can’t feel herself cry. Blood runs in rivulets down her arms, her cheeks, but she presses on.

There is no Athenril; things are too dangerous, and she’s run.

__

And yet, when the smoke clears, when she drops to her knees even as the remaining templars surround them in ranks, when the end is near, the hand she feels on her shoulder isn’t Garrett’s. It isn’t Anders’. It isn’t Isabela’s or Varric’s or Merrill’s or Fenris’s, but she  _knows_  it. She swallows. She tells herself it’s just a last minute dream before death.

“Hey, darling,” a voice murmurs, and it’s the voice she’s wanted to hear for three years. She looks up, and it’s Athenril looking down at her with a grim smile and a scar running down along the side of her face that wasn’t there before. The tip of one beautiful ear is gone. Her cheeks are hollow but her eyes flash with determination, and Bethany slowly reaches up to take her hand.

“I’m here for you,” Athenril says as Bethany rises and they meet the gaze of so many helmeted templars. “I’m back.”

And maybe it’s only Garrett’s strength that has Cullen stepping aside, only his charisma that leads them out to safety, but she’ll always think of Athenril as her savior, in so many ways.

__

“Where did you go?” Bethany whispers as Athenril slides her ruined robes from her shoulders. She’s missing two fingers, too, and there are so many signs of pain and loss on the elf’s skin. She reaches up to cover Athenril’s hand with her own. “What happened?”

“A mistake,” Athenril breathes into her hair, sliding her arms around Bethany as the fabric slithers down and off.

“Did you run?”

Athenril stiffens for just a moment, then dips her head to press a kiss to the curve of her shoulder. “No. I’d never run away from you, darling. It was a deal gone bad.”

Bethany looks at Athenril’s arms across her belly, scarred and more tan than she remembers them being. “How bad?” she whispers.

“I was in Llomerynn for two years, and almost wound up in a magister’s slave quarters,” Athenril says, and she says it quickly, and follows it with, “But it’s done now. And now I’m home, and I’ve got you all to myself. No bloody templars guarding the door.” Bethany can feel her smile, but can also feel how small it is. “I was afraid I wouldn’t get here in time. But I did.”

“You did,” Bethany say, and she turns, pulling Athenril into her arms and pressing her worried and cracked lips to her forehead. “You did.”


	2. Ginger Kisses [G]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by combination-nc - something sweet, a wagon is involved somehow.

They’re a week out of Kirkwall and Bethany still isn’t used to the bumping of the wagon over the rutted dirt roads leading along the coast. Every rock they hit, she clings to the side of the rickety cart and tries not to light the whole thing on fire.

She would have appreciated another night, another  _week_ , back at the estate with Garrett and Anders, but she knows it was impossible. As it is, they sleep under the stars, or sometimes in a tiny inn, and along with her stomach, her back is aching. The Gallows beds were tiny and cold, but at least they were comfortable. Meredith hadn’t quite gotten to the point of banning the old down pillows.

The wagon hits another bump, and Bethany squeaks, an unplanned and unwanted sound as the edge of the wagon bumps up against her ribs. She wavers, unsteady, but then a pair of narrow, strong hands grip her hips and tug her back. She nearly goes sprawling off the seat, but those same hands keep her steady.

“You’ve turned green,” Athenril says, and Bethany laughs awkwardly. “Refugee who can’t handle carts?”

“It’s been a long time,” Bethany says. And it has. The last time she rode in a cart was with the same woman next to her now, a little over six years ago.

So much has changed.

Last time, for instance, Athenril hadn’t tucked her against her side and reached into a hip pouch, drawing out a bit of candied something that’s golden in color and covered in what looks like sugar. Bethany takes it, but looks to the smuggler before putting it in her mouth.

“Candied ginger. Takes the edge off. One of the new imports from Seheron these days. It’s a bit strong, but it works.” Athenril’s fingers wind around Bethany’s, and guide the morsel to her lips. Bethany blushes. “Here,” she murmurs in the exact way that makes Bethany forget whatever it is she’s trying to think about, and she takes a nibble.

It’s like a fireball goes off in her mouth, and she coughs, but Athenril smiles and kisses her before she can spit out the little crystal. She takes some of the fire into her, instead, until Bethany can manage. And when she pulls away, Bethany chews, and swallows, and settles down against Athenril’s shoulder to wait for it to set in.

“Better?” Athenril asks after a moment.

Bethany nods, then gestures to Anders and Garrett, asleep across from them. The others walk somewhere ahead of the cart or ride in the second one. She laughs quietly. “Do you remember,” she says, “how Garrett would never let you around me without keeping one eye on you at all times? Like you would snatch me away?”

“No snatching,” Athenril promises, “though sometimes it is tempting. Take you away from here, find a place to tuck you away safely…”

“Buy me pretty dresses?”

Athenril says nothing, but her smile says she’s imagining it.

Bethany snuggles closer. “But you remember that. And now, he trusts you so much he misses our first public kiss. Shame on him.”

Athenril laughs. “Yes,” she says. “Shame.”


	3. Stolen [T]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for MissL0nelyHearts, who requested the Hanged Man, darts, and beer.

“You know, even if my brother isn’t here, Varric will be. Or Isabela. Somebody’s going to see,” Bethany whispers as Athenril nudges her into the main room of the Hanged Man, hand on her lower back.

“Are they going to play white knight?” Athenril asks, then laughs, low and smooth and in the way that makes Bethany’s toes curl and thoughts fly to  _women are good for **six**_. “Because as long as they don’t get in the way, I don’t care what they see.”

“Oh,” Bethany says, and lets herself be ushered forward.

Isabela isn’t by the bar, and she thinks that she should at least be grateful for that. Knowing the woman, she would have tried to join  _in_. But Athenril’s note had implied alone time, and alone time had drawn her out of Gamlen’s hovel, stealing through the gathering dusk. Athenril had met her two streets over, arm sliding easily around her shoulders.

And now they’re alone (well, not alone, but alone in any functional sense) in the Hanged Man, and Bethany’s cheeks are already flushed even though she hasn’t touched a single drink.

That changes quickly. Athenril orders them both a round and Corff raises a brow, because usually Garrett tries to keep Bethany from drinking. But Garrett isn’ there, and so she takes a very large sip, and then wrinkles her nose. It tastes  _horrid_.

Athenril chuckles at her face, and raises her cup to her. “To a little taste of independence,” Athenril says, and Bethany raises her cup before she thinks, takes another swallow before she thinks.

Oh  _Maker_  it tastes bad.

But if there’s one thing that Bethany regrets about the past year, working for Athenril, it’s that she never got to sit with the woman and just  _talk_. Something always got in the way (and that something was usually Garrett or his mabari). Now, though, with Garrett visiting Darktown often enough that mother was beginning to worry, she revels in just sitting with the smuggler.

She is very pretty, after all.

Athenril catches her smiling and winks, and Bethany feels her stomach drop out and take to floating and doing somersaults.

___

Two hours later she’s had five cups of the swill and Athenril is standing behind her, close enough that Bethany thinks she can hear her breathing. She tries to ignore it, sniffling and biting her lip as she aims at the board ten feet away. This would be a lot easier if she could just- guide the dart in with a thought. Or light the thing on fire.

But even with Athenril watching her back that’s a  _bad idea_ , and so she sticks her tongue out the side of her mouth and throws.

It hits the wall side-on and tumbles to the ground. Bethany winces.

Athenril hums behind her, then steps closer, and Bethany’s eyes go wide as she slips an arm around her waist, other hand rising to touch Bethany’s wrist. “Take another dart,” Athenril says, and she does, switching the last one she has to her throwing hand. Athenril guides her hand up.

And then her hand slips down, down to her hip, and Athenril presses against her thigh. “You’re leaning forward to much,” she murmurs, warm against Bethany’s ear. She’s never been this close, Bethany thinks wildly, and she shuffles to get closer to Athenril. Athenril laughs, and guides her by shifting her own feet, until Bethany is flush against her and in what must be a better position for- for-  _something_.

“And you’re throwing too hard. You can go more gently. Focus on the path of your arm after the throw and not putting power into the throw, hm?”

Athenril’s hands are both on her hips now, thumbs rubbing at her lower back, and Bethany bites back a whine.

“Make me proud, darling,” Athenril purrs, and then she steps back, and the room feels ten times colder.

Bethany takes a deep breath and throws.


	4. The Things You Say [T]

“Athenril?”

“Yes, Bethany?”

“What do you like about me?”

“Do you mean, what do I like most? There’s more than one thing, darling.”

“Is there? Is there really?”

“Of course there is. There’s your voice, to begin with. And then there’s the words you create with that voice. There’s the way you say my name, and the way you say  _love_ , and the way you say  _yes_. There’s your hands, and the way they work, and the way they feel.”

“I-  _oh_ -“

“I’m not done. Lie back down, Bethany. There’s your heart, which is greater than it should be with all you’ve seen and all I’ve done to harden it. There’s your smile. Your laugh. Your lips.”

“ _Athenril_ …”

“Your skin. The way magic sparks along it when you let your guard down, which you don’t do enough. The hollow of your throat…”

“ _Oh_ -“

“The way your breath catches. Your breasts. Your belly. Your hips, your legs, your-“

“A-Athenril-  _please_ -“

“The way you get overwhelmed. The way you shiver. The way you moan. The way you say  _please_  and the way you say  _don’t stop.”_

“Y-you’re embarrassing me-“

“The way you fight and the way you love. The way you blush when you’re embarrassed or surprised or delighted. The way you eat sweets. The way you drink water.”

“Maker…”

“The way you say,  _I love you Athenril_ -“

“I love you, Athenril-“

“ _But please stop-_ ”

“But please-  _oh_. … You are a wicked, wretched woman.”

“That I am, darling.”


End file.
